


Darling

by doyou000me



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Investigation, Blood, Crime, F/M, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Harry and Ginny are not in a happy place, Harry suffers from headaches, Mutilated Bodies, Potions overuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29110980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doyou000me/pseuds/doyou000me
Summary: Caught up in a case with three dead men and no leads, Harry struggles with sleeplessness and crippling headaches. When mounting expectations at home and at work almost make him crumble, Mrs Zabini unexpectedly offers him a reprieve.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Mrs Zabini
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

Harry will never be able to look at muggle photographs the same again. He’s sitting on the edge of Ron’s desk, rubbing his temple with one hand as he looks at the pictures put up with sticking charms on the walls of their cubicle. Though magical, they are as still as their muggle counterpart, because the people in the pictures are all dead. 

Paul Cresswell, 39 years old, hanging from the rafters of his attic with a chain around his wrists. His body has been cut and slashed in bleeding gashes, his toes dipping into a pool of his own blood on the ground. There is nothing but a bloody, fleshy mess left between his legs. 

Robert Midgen, 54, hands tied behind the back of a chair and head hanging in a way that hides his face. Stabwounds cover his torso, 28 counted though it's impossible to tell from the picture. His stomach pouches out, hanging down over his crotch and hiding what is left of his severed genitalia. 

Wilkie Twycross, 46, spreadeagled over his bed with his arms and legs tied to the posts, the sheets drenched red. His stomach has been slashed open, baring flesh and guts to the world, and both his penis and testicles have been cut off. 

“There’s nothing!” Ron snaps, slapping the files onto his desk and throwing his hands up. 

Harry glances down at him over his shoulder. 

“They didn’t attend Hogwarts at the same time and weren’t even sorted into the same house. They haven’t worked together, don’t share the same friends and don’t have the same social circles. Midgen was married, Twycross had a boyfriend, Cresswell was a notorious playboy with more lovers than gnomes in mom’s garden! There’s nothing that connects them!” 

Harry sighs, gets off the desk and goes over to his own to pull out the top drawer. “And it’s not a matter of physical appearance, because the only thing they share is the fact that they’re men,” he says and takes out a potions bottle. 

“Hey, mate, you sure you’re gonna take that?” Ron asks, eyeing the bottle when Harry turns around to look at him. “How many is that today?” 

“Just the second.” 

“And how many did the Healer say you could take in a day?” 

“Two,” Harry answers, popping the cork and tipping his head back, downing the snot-yellow potion. He squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace at the taste, then lets out a slow breath when the ache building in his skull starts to subside. 

“Why don’t you call it a day, go get some sleep? You look like something Crookshanks dragged in.” 

Harry snorts but shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’d better stay. We’ve still got nothing to show Robarts.” 

“Then sneak home, get a few hours of shut eye and come back before Robarts comes in tomorrow. It’s not like anyone’s here to tell on you!” Ron gestures with his hand around the empty Auror office, at the pushed in chairs and the desks covered in case files. 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right…” Harry rubs his face, feeling the prickle of his stubble. “Shouldn’t you get home as well?” 

“I’d better stay a little bit longer so I’m sure Rose is fast asleep. Last time I came home and woke her up, Hermione nearly killed me!” 

“You should use some of your vacation days, make sure you get to spend time with them,” Harry says, taking his outer robe from where it’s thrown over the back of his chair. 

“When this case is over, I will. If I didn’t have such a good partner, I might even quit the Aurors and become a homemaker! Merlin knows Hermione’s gonna make it further in the Ministry than I even will!” Ron grins and sinks further down in his chair, slinging one arm behind his head and shooing Harry with the other. “Go on, get some rest. I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

Harry smiles and nods. “Good night, mate. I’ll try to come in early.” 

“Mr Potter? Mr Potter!” A young man comes sliding around the corner, grabbing on to a desk to stop his momentum as he bends over to heave in great gasping breaths. 

Harry closes his eyes, feeling his shoulders droop. 

“Auror Potter was just about to leave for the day,” Ron states, using the same voice that makes new recruits stand straight and can get even the most arrogant newcomers to lose their confidence. “Whatever the matter is, I’m sure it can wait for tomorrow.” 

The young man just shakes his head, brown locks falling into his eyes. “The gala!” he manages between gasps. “The Minister… requests… Mr Potter’s presence…” 

Harry’s head throbs and he swears, eyes flying to the complicated piece of clockwork over the door to the Head Auror’s office. It shows time, day of the week, date and year, all at the same time. 

Tuesday, 2nd of May, 2006

He’s forgotten about the annual celebration of the Battle of Hogwarts. 

“Blood hell,” Ron mutters. “You want me to stun him so you can escape? I could obliviate him, make him think he never found you. Maybe make him think he fell in the corridor and bumped his head real bad,” he suggests, hand already going for his wand as he eyes the Minister’s assistant. 

The assistant gulps, edging backwards as his eyes flicker between the two Aurors. Harry has to admit it’s a tempting offer, but shakes his head all the same. 

“The poor kid’s just doing his job, Ron. He’s not even one of ours, you shouldn’t scare him too bad,” he says and Ron pouts. Turning to the assistant, he wavs for him to get going. “Go on, then, take me to Shacklebolt. I suppose I’d better say hi.” 

* * *

Ministry galas are always extravagant affairs of nosy reporters, overly friendly Ministry employees and opportunistic Wizengamot members looking for a chance at a drip of extra influence. The party has been underway for the better part of an hour, and the free alcohol has turned the babble and laughter into a ruckus cacophony that clashes with the music from the live orchestra. 

“Harry! I’m glad you could make it!” Shacklebolt calles over the racket. He’s standing in a circle of men and women who Harry distantly identifies as department heads and members of the Wizengamot, and he raises a brow when the young assistant practically pushes Harry into their midst. “Auror robes, Harry? When you’re here as a guest of honor and not a guard on duty?” 

“I found him in the Auror Department, mister Minister, sir!” the assistant pipes up. 

“Thank you for finding him for me, Mr Hughes,” Shacklebolt says and the kid shines up like a Christmas three. “Now that you are finally here, let me introduce you to our new head of the Foreign Affairs and Sports Department…” 

Harry plasters on a smile he knows is barely polite and lets one of the servers put a drink in his hand. He shakes hands and nods at people as if he’s listening to them and lets Schaklebolt put a hand on his shoulder and lead him around the ceremonial hall to shake hands with and smile at more people. He tries his best to ignore the noise, push it to the background, but a sudden bark of laughter or shout of a name cuts through and his eye twitches when the pain in his temple comes back with a vengeance. 

“A picture, Mr Minister? Auror Potter?” 

“Why not?” Shacklebolt answers, his smile ready and his hand on Harry’s back as if to keep him in place. The flash goes off, a crack of blinding white. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away, gritting his teeth when the headache drives an iron pike through his brain.

“Mr Potter,” the reporter gushes, leaning in close. “Our readers are dying to know-”

“Excuse me,” Harry cuts him off, shaking his head a bit to clear his vision. “Nature calls.” 

He turns and sidesteps Shacklebolt, aiming for the toilets by the entrance. He pushes his way through the crows, dodging anyone who looks the least bit inclined to approach him, and finally steps into the white-tiled room. Slamming the door shut and smothering the festivities into a dim hubbub, he flings away a detection spell to make sure the stalls are empty before breathing out. 

The foot of his champagne flute clinks sharply against the marble countertop when he puts it down and he winces, eyes flinching shut. Lifting a hand to his temple, he tries to hold his head together against the stabbing pain. The lavatory is too bright, all white marble, glossy tiles and gold finish. With his eyes squeezed closed, Harry takes off his glasses and puts them aside with his wand. Turning the tap, he splashes his face with cold water, then grips the lip of the basin and lets his head hang limply, fringe dripping. 

He knows that public appearances have their use, that they’re important to show a “united front” and make “the people trust in their work”. He knows because Shacklebolt has told him so several times, usually with a more or less demanding tone, but right now it’s just not worth it. 

Harry pushes his dripping fringe back and puts his glasses on. Looking at himself in the mirror, he sees the redness of his eyes and the bruise-like shadows under them. Even he can tell that he looks like an absolute wreck. 

The door opens and a shockwave of noise from the party breaks into the room. Harry swings around, his stance widening and his fingers closing around his wand, and then he has to grab the marble counter when the room careens sharply to the side. 

The reporter from earlier puts his head through, then breaks out in a smile when he sees Harry. “There you are, Mr Potter! I was hoping to catch you for a few questions, I hope you don’t mind!” he says excitedly, slipping in and pushing the door closed. 

Harry blinks, his grip on the counter turning white-knuckled as he takes one deep breath after another, waiting for the room to slowly righten itself. He is clearly not equipped to handle reporters right now, especially not the kind willing to corner him in the toilets. 

“I understand you’re investigating a big case at the moment. You must be very busy, being one of the most talented Aurors in the Department,” the reporter prattles, digging a quill and notebook out of his robes. 

“You know I can’t comment on ongoing investigations. I-”

“How does your work affect your relationship with Ginevra Weasley?” the reporter presses on. “She’s playing against the Cannons tonight, isn’t she? It must be difficult to maintain a relationship when you’re both-”

The door is thrown open and slams into the reporter’s shoulder, sending him staggering into the wall with a pained gasp as he drops his notebook to hold his arm. In steps a woman with glinting gold around her neck and robes of deepest red. 

“How unsightly, Mr Caterwauler,” she says, lifting her lip in a disdainful sneer. “Intruding on people’s privacy in the toilet is low even for the likes of you.” 

“Wha- This is the men’s room! What do you think you’re-?” 

“I am asking you to leave.  _ Accio _ .” She summons his notebook and quill from the floor, then chucks them out the open door. “Out. Now.” 

The reporter scrambles after them and she shuts the door as soon as he’s crossed the threshold. With a tap of her wand the lock clicks into place and Harry gapes at her when she calmly places her wand on the counter and turns to him.

“Good evening, Mr Potter. Do excuse the intrusion.” Her voice is deep and husky, her skin dark and her cheekbones high. There is something vaguely familiar about her. 

“Thank you for getting rid of the reporter, ms...?” Harry says slowly, trying to place her.

“Mrs, actually. Zabini. A pleasure, Mr Potter.” 

She holds her hand out, clad in a silken glove. Harry doesn’t take it. 

Mrs Isobel Zabini. Mother of Blaise Zabini and widow of seven husbands, all dead under more or less questionable circumstances. No signs of foul play, no clues, no evidence of her involvement in their sudden passings except for the suspicious sprouting from the considerable wealth she inherited. And now she is here, in the mens’ room at the annual Ministry gala, her smile unwaveringly pleasant even as she looks down at her unshaken hand, shrugs a shoulder and lowers it. Harry might just take the reporter over her company. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a party to get back to, madam.”  _ And an apparition point to find, _ he thinks and takes a step towards her to push past. 

The room tilts again. Harry hits his side against the counter with a grunt. The shattering of glass cuts sharply through the room and Harry winces at the sound. Pressing a hand to his head, he squeezes his eyes shut and wheezes through the pain. 

There’s the soft mumble of a  _ Scourgify  _ and the champagne that has started to seep into Harry’s sleeve is suddenly gone. 

“That was probably for the best,” says Mrs Zabini. “Had a few too many, have we?” 

“I wouldn’t say one is too many,” Harry grinds out. Even he can hear how tired he sounds. 

“That would depend on your dinner, would it not?” 

Harry shakes his head, leaning heavily against the counter. Did he eat dinner? Or did he forget it again, caught up in the files and pictures and pensive memories of the case? He tries to remember the last time he ate something when realisation drops like a stone. 

The pain-relieving potion. Rookie mistake, mixing potions with alcohol. 

His head throbs and he screws his face up in pain, pressing his hands to his skull to keep it from splitting open. Warm fingers brush his neck and he flinches away, then stumbles when he loses his balance again. A surprisingly strong hand grabs his arm and holds him upright. 

“Breath, Mr Potter. Slowly.” 

Harry draws in a deep breath and slowly, shakily lets it out. 

“Headaches commonly originate from tension,” Mrs Zabini says behind him and he freezes when one of her hands settle on his shoulder. She tsks. “Relax, Mr Potter. Concentrate on breathing.”

Her hands move to his neck, fingers resting along the sides of his throat and thumbs pushing upwards along his spine to the base of his skull. He raises a hand in an attempt to push her away, every fibre in his being shrieking in warning, but the mounting pain is making his stomach turn and he’s busy keeping himself from throwing up. He drops his head forwards, holding on to the sides of the sink as he breathes, feeling Mrs Zabini’s thumbs press small circles into the base of his skull before moving down again. Something tight releases it’s hold on his neck and shoulders and he breathes out a breath of relief.

“How are you feeling, Mr Potter?” she asks after a little while. 

Pushing himself up, he forces her to step back and release him as he turns around. “Thank you, Mrs Zabini,” he says quietly, his voice raspy. “I think I’d better head home now. Have a good evening.” 

“Let me apparate you, Mr Potter.” 

Harry swallows, his stomach clenching at the thought of apparition in his current state, but spinning through the floo wouldn’t be much better right now. Knowing his luck, he would most likely fall out the wrong fireplace. 

“I’ll apparate on my own, thank you very much,” he says, but there’s no bite in his tone and he’s too tired to shake her off when she takes his arm. 

“Nonsense, Mr Potter. I can’t let you go and splinch yourself in good conscience,” she says and picks up her wand, unlocking the door. “It’d be a shame, on such a handsome young man like yourself.” 

* * *

Looks is a factor that Isobel Zabini has never taken into account when choosing her men. If they are handsome or not is inconsequential to their ability to give her what she’s looking for, be it money, influence or a particular favour. A certain measure of attractiveness can of course be helpful when sex comes into the picture, but it’s been years since she learned that sex doesn’t have to include looking at her partner’s face. 

As she stands by the orchestra at the Ministry Gala, mindful of how the glittering lights reflect in her black hair and the gold jewelry that complement her skin tone, she determines that she has nothing to gain from pursuing Harry Potter. While he has influence and money in spades, he is far too honest and has too many scruples about what’s right and wrong to be swayed in a way that could make him useful, not to mention his admirably faithful relationship with Ginevra Weasley. The public attention to everything Potter could also lead to a back-lash she would rather avoid, so no, Mr Potter is not a man she would ever pursue. 

Twirling the champagne flute in her hand, she takes in Potter’s raised shoulders and the hands tightly clenched behind his back. He nods at something the Minister is saying, but looks like a hippogriff about to charge at the boundaries of its enclosure to escape. If she remembers correctly he’s the same age as Blaise, but looks much older with stubble growing along his chin and dark circles under his eyes that make him seem unwell. Tapping a nail against the glass in her hand, Mrs Zabini realises she’d like to give him a shave. 

What would he look like without all that hostile tension, with his hair combed and a freshly washed face? How much work would it take to erase those shadows under his eyes? She admits to herself that she is curious, and lets herself indulge in thoughts of what it would feel like if she could get him to relax, the stress and strain draining out under her hands. 

Just then, a short man with a big camera sidles up to Potter and the Minister for a picture. She recognizes him; Jacob Caterwauler is an irritating little pest that she has caught camping outside her home on more than one occasion, hoping for the latest scoop about her. She smiles when Potter ducks out of the way and makes for the toilets as soon Caterwauler has snapped a photo, leaving the reporter with the Minister. It seems Potter has some good sense, in spite of the stories Blaise told her during his Hogwarts years. 

Then Caterwauler makes his excuses and follows Potter, making her lips tighten. Without a shred of shame, the reporter opens the door to the men’s room and goes in. 

Taking a sip of the champagne, she weighs her options. There is no immediate gain in intervening, but she has long since stopped lying to herself and the thought of Caterwauler harassing an already wrought out Potter is irritating enough for her to make her way to the toilets, dropping the glass onto the platter of a passing waiter as she goes. 

Later, when they spin out of the apparition and Potter stumbles, leaning heavily against her, she knows she made the right choice. There will no doubt be consequences - Caterwauler must want revenge and she did see a flash go off when she guided Potter towards the apparition point. Still, she decides it’ll have to be worth it as she holds Potter against her side, feeling his heavy breaths as he tries to gather himself. She looks down at his pale face, his eyes closed and his fringe stripy against his forehead. She squeezes his arm and smiles, knowing he can’t see it and thinking it’s probably for the best. 

It’s been a long time since she picked someone not because of what they could give her, but simply because she wanted to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be a total of 6-7 chapters. I've written chapters 1-5 but got stuck on chapter 6, so I decided to start posting for inspiration and that extra push. Please leave a review and tell me if you like it so that I can write the rest of the story and share it will you all!


	2. Chapter 2

Harry rolls over with a groan, burying his face in the pillow to escape the grey light coming in through the window. He forgot to pull the curtains when he got back yesterday and collapsed into bed, and when he turns his head and squints an eye open, he realises it’s not the only thing he forgot. His glasses are digging into his temple and he’s still dressed in his Auror robes, one boot still on his foot while the other is on the floor by the side of the bed. He finds his wand poking him in the side and fumbles out a sloppy _Tempus._ It’s not even five in the morning yet.

Something bangs downstairs, and Harry pushes himself up with a sigh. There’s gravel rolling around in his head and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. Righting his glasses, he sits at the edge of the bed and laces up his second boot while trying to blink the bedroom into focus. He sees he didn’t even close the door properly, and now there’s light coming in from the hallway, lights he didn’t turn on. A second bang sounds, and Harry identifies it as a kitchen cabinet slamming shut. 

He staggers out of the bedroom and down the stairs, holding on to the railing with one hand as he tries to push his hair out of his face with the other. A green and yellow quidditch robe has been thrown over the cloak stand by the door and in the kitchen he finds Ginny. She’s sitting by the table with her hands around a mug and the steam rising from it smells like a sobering potion. Her red hair is a wild mess, most of it escaped from her long braid, and her cheeks are flushed but her eyes are clear and pin Harry as soon as he steps in through the door. 

“Hey, Gin,” he croaks and goes to rummage through the potions drawer for something against his hangover. “How did the match go?” 

“Great,” she bites out.

Harry freezes, his shoulders locking up in tension. He turns around to face her and now her eyes are blazing. 

“Okay…” he says slowly, a familiar pressure at his temple making itself known. “So did you win?” 

Ginny slaps a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table, then leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. Harry glances from her to the paper and back, then shuffles over to the table to take it. There’s a large picture of Ginny and her team clustered together, jumping and hugging in the middle of the pitch, green and yellow banners filling the stands and confetti raining down over them. 

_HARPIES OUTCLASS CANNONS_ cries the headline. 

“That’s great, Gin!” he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster at the moment. “Shouldn’t you be at the afterparty?” 

Ginny says nothing, just stabs her finger at a much smaller article squeezed in at the bottom of the page. Harry frowns and leans in to get a closer look at the picture. It’s from the gala yesterday and shows him standing stiffly beside Shacklebolt. 

_DATELESS POTTER AT MINISTRY GALA_

_Harry Potter was seen looking distinctly unhappy yesterday at the annual Ministry celebration of the victory at Hogwarts on the 2nd of May. Abandoned by his wife-to-be, Ginevra Weasley, who was away-_

“Is that all I am now?” Ginny snaps. “Your _wife-to-be_? Should I just dress up and be your date for galas and then stay in the house and wait for you to come home?”

“What?” Harry gapes at her, the gravel in his head trying to catch up. “No, of course not-”

“Then what? Should I just ignore it, let them write whatever they want? This isn’t the first time but it clearly hasn’t bothered you!” 

“Wait… this isn’t the first time?” Harry asks and immediately realises it’s the wrong thing to say. 

“Every single time they write about me there’s always _something_ about how I should stop playing Quidditch to be your wife or I’m away too much or our relationship must be over because they don’t think we’re affectionate enough in public! How have you not noticed it?! Do you even care?!” 

“Of course I care, Ginny! I just… I didn’t know…”

“NO? Well now you do!”

“Yes… yes, so…” Harry rubs his hands over his face and the pressure in his head turns to an ache. “What do you want me to do about it?” 

The kitchen falls deadly quiet. When he lowers his hands, Ginny is gaping at him and the flames in her eyes seem to have been compressed into something cold and hard. 

“Maybe you could act like it’s not just my problem.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but winces instead when his headache spikes. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drops his head to the side and presses the heel of his hand to his temple. With one eye barely open, he makes it back to the open drawer, hearing Ginny’s chair scrape against the floor behind him. He finds a bottle of snot-yellow potion and uncorks it, downing the contents at the same time as he hears the front door being thrown open followed by Ron’s startled voice. 

“Oh, hi Ginny! I didn’t know you’re home. How was the match? Ginny? Ginny!” 

The door slams closed followed by Ron’s mutter of “What’s wrong with her?” 

Leaning over the kitchen counter, Harry takes a few deep breaths, waiting for the potion to kick in. He hears Ron move about the hallway before coming down the stairs to the kitchen. 

“There you are, mate. I saw Ginny leave, what- Hey, are you okay?” 

Letting out a breath slowly, Harry nods and pushes away from the counter to turn to his partner and friend. “I will be in a moment. What’s wrong?” 

Ron’s expression darkens. “We have another body.” 

* * *

“Ernest Hawkworth,” says Alena Savage, her face pale with a green tinge but the sleeves of her red Auror robes rolled up and her voice unwavering. “Found about an hour ago by his wife, Ruth Hawkworth. Says she was away visiting their son and when she came home, she found Mr Hawkworth like this.”

Like the others, Mr Hawkworth has been stripped. He’s strung up, half sitting against the wall with his arms tied with ropes to a mounted hippogriff head. Judging from the blood on the walnut panelling, his head has been bashed against the wall, but Harry can’t tell if it happened before or after his genitalia was cut off. 

“Fractured skull?” he asks and Auror Savage nods even as Harry swipes his wand for the standard diagnostic and detective spells himself. 

“And the wife?” asks Ron. 

Savage jerks her head towards a pair of glazed double doors leading to the next sitting room. “She’s with Proudfoot.”

“I’ll go talk with her,” Ron volunteers and pats Harry on the shoulder. 

Harry nods. “No magical signature, no immediate residue of potion use and no sign of resistance,” he mutters, rattling off the results of his spells. “His wand?” 

“His wife found it in their bedroom upstairs,” Savage says. “You think it’s the same killer?” 

“Seems like it.” 

Crouching down on the outskirts of the pool of blood, he sighs at the open gash between the dead man’s legs. It’s not a clean cut - Hawkworth’s bits had been hacked away. It’s all too easy to imagine the killer screaming and raging, red-faced with exertion as they hack away at Hawkworth, knife in hand. Did they do it after Hawkworth died, or did the blood spray them with each slash? 

When did Harry stop feeling nauseous by grisly crime scenes like this one? He doesn’t remember the last time he had to vanish his own sick from behind a victim’s bush. All that’s left now is a deep weariness and the hot pressure in his head. 

“There’s no slashes or stabs…” he mumbles to himself before turning his head slightly in Savage’s direction, keeping his eyes on the body. “Have you turned him over?” 

“We wanted to wait for you to get here before touching the body.” 

Harry nods and pushes himself back up with his hands on his knees. “And you’ve taken pictures? Okay, let's take him down.” 

With a bit of finicky spellwork, they manage to untie the rope and shift the body, Harry angling his wand to tilt the body forwards - and sighs when he sees the back littered in cuts. 

“We’re definitely dealing with the same murderer.”

They’re moving the body to a conjured stretcher when Ron comes back, his face set in a grim scowl. 

“Robarts is not going to be happy,” he grumbles. “Mr Hawkworth over there? He’s a senior member of the Wizengamot.” 

* * *

“I’m adding Savage and Proudfoot to your team,” Robarts says when they’re back at the department. “We’ve managed to keep the case relatively quiet so far, but with a Wizengamot member involved the media is going to be all over it.” 

“That’s what matters to you?” Harry asks, grinding the heel of his hand into his temple. “We’ve got four people dead and a murderer on the loose and you care about what the media’s going to say?” 

“Watch your tone, Potter. Your case isn’t the only one we’ve got - everyone is busy.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry presses out through gritted teeth and feels Ron’s hand land on his shoulder. 

“What have you got so far? Weasley?” 

“Mr Hawkworth is the fourth victim of what we believe to be a serial killer. Our first victim is Paul Cresswell, found on the 21st of February, followed by Robert Midgen on the 27th of Marsh and then Wilkie Twycross who was killed on the 14th of April and found a couple of days later by his muggle boyfriend. All the victims are men. Their genitalia has been cut off and their bodies stabbed and cut. Analysis from the earlier victims have shown that the wounds have been inflicted with a knife rather than spells. No traces of potions have been found.”

“Any connections?” asks Proudfoot and Ron shakes his head. 

“Their ages range from 39 to 61 years old. They have no common acquaintances or other social connections that we’ve found. Cresswell, Twycross and now Hawkworth all have connections to the Ministry, Cresswell through his brother who was the head of the Goblin Liaison Office and Twycross as an apparition instructor for the Department of Magical Transportation, but we’ve found no reason to suspect that they had any further connections.”

“Could it be a cover up?” Savage suggests, thumbing through their files on the victims. “Maybe Hawkworth, as a member of the Wizengamot, was the actual target and the others were just… practice? Or red herrings to throw us off the scent?” 

“The killings are too emotional for that,” Harry says, shaking his head. “The stabbings and cuts? Whoever the killer is, they really wanted to hurt these people. They were all bound in different manners, too, so the killer sees them as individuals. No, the killer knows these people and whatever their motive is, it’s personal.”

“Revenge?” 

“Could be,” Ron agrees. “But for what?”

“Alright, time to get to it,” Robarts says, clapping his hands together. “Weasley, I want you to talk with the rest of the family. Known enemies, strange behavior lately, you know the drill. Savage and Proudfoot, familiarise yourselves with the files and look into possible connections, see if you can unearth anything new now that we’ve got a fourth victim. Also, look into Hawkworth’s work in the Wizengamot, voting record and political allies and so on. Potter, I need you to shave and shower and change into clean robes. You’re coming with me to the press conference at three. We need to tell the reporters what we want them to say before they start making up their own stories.” 

* * *

The cameras are flashing and quills scratch madly over parchment and notebooks. Robarts is standing at the front of the podium, a _Sonorus_ carrying his words over the crowd as he lays out the basics of the case and assures everyone that he has put together a special team of the best Aurors in the department to solve it. 

Harry is standing a few steps back with his hands clutched behind him and his gaze up over the heads of the reporters and away from the worst of the flashes from their cameras.

He can’t decide what he hates more, press briefings or Ministry galas. On one hand, the briefings have the benefit of being comparatively short and usually for a limited amount of time. On the other hand, they force him to stand in the limelight, elevated on a podium so that all eyes are on him. Still, he knows that Robarts has him attend press briefings for the same reason Shacklebolt makes him come to Ministry events; when the public isn’t gossiping about his private life, they seem to think he’s some kind of super Auror who can solve any case single handedly before teatime. 

“And now Auror Potter will take your questions,” Robarts says and steps aside. 

Harry sighs and steps up, looking away for a moment when the cameras flash and the reporters start to shout their questions. Many of them are questions they should know he can’t answer, but he doesn’t roll his eyes at them because Robarts would have his head if he did. 

“Susan Hopps, the WWN. What’s linking the murders?”

“Tina Chen, the Daily Prophet. How does the killer choose his victims?” 

“Sean Murphy, Witch Weekly. Do you have any suspects?” 

Casting the _Sonorus_ charm and putting the tip of his wand against his own throat, Harry raises his free hand to make the reporters quiet down and goes about answering the questions he can. By the time the questions finally start to slow, his head is throbbing again he has locked every muscle in his body to stop himself from flinching from the light whenever a flash goes off. 

“Thank you,” Robarts says, smoothly stepping in and taking over. “If that was all the questions for today-”

“Mr Potter, is the case making you delay your marriage with Ms Weasley?” 

Harry narrows his eyes and scans the crowd. There, in the midst of reporters, stands the one who followed him into the toilet yesterday. Caterwauler. 

“I must ask that questions stay on topic,” Robarts warns.

“Your relationship seems to be suffering and you didn’t look very well yesterday!” Caterwauler presses on, now elbowing his way closer to the platform. “Are you considering breaking up with Ms Weasley?” 

“This briefing is over!” Robarts declares, cancelling his _Sonorus_ charm and turning to leave.

Harry throws Caterwauler a filthy look, then goes to follow Robarts off the podium. 

“Is it because you’ve found someone else?” 

Harry whips around and doesn’t need a charm to make himself heard when he shouts “I would never cheat on Ginny!” 

“Potter!” Roberts steps in front of him, grabbing his outreached wand arm and pushing him backwards. “You cannot curse civilians,” he hisses through clenched teeth. 

Harry glares at him for a long moment, snarls and rips his arm free. Turning, he storms off the stage to the smatter of flashing cameras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the second chapter! Please do leave a comment and tell me what you think! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Robarts sent him home to “get his priorities straight” and told him to come back when he could “think clearly” again, so Harry is hunched over the table in one of the booths at the Leaky Cauldron. Not wanting to repeat the mistake of mixing potions with alcohol, he’s nursing a glass of pumpkin juice and wishing it was butterbeer. 

He can’t bring himself to go home. The Quidditch season is in full swing so Ginny will most likely be away with the team, preparing for the next match. After the argument that morning, he can’t decide if he wants her to be home or not, and that only makes it worse. 

“Good afternoon, Mr Potter.”

Harry groans and glances up through his fringe at Mrs Zabini sliding into the seat in front of him. “What do you want?” he grumbles, then frowns. “Don’t tell me you’ve been following me?”

“Of course not, Mr Potter. I’ve been shopping and was on my way home when I saw you looking miserable by yourself.”

He follows the gesture of her hand and sees the paper bags on the seat by her side. Sighing, he rubs his forehead. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Zabini, I’m… having a rough day. I’d rather drink alone.”

“Pumpkin juice?" She leans over the table, peering into his glass. "Have you perhaps taken a potion for the headaches?" She sits back again and when he says nothing she raises her brows. "I see… Is that what happened at the gala, then? Well, I would recommend water. It's likelier to help against the headache than pumpkin juice." 

"Why do you care?” Harry asks, resting his head in his hand with his elbow on the table. “If you didn’t know, I’m practically married to Ginny Weasley already and I have no interest in becoming your 8th dead husband.” 

“If that was my intention, your current relationships would hardly matter,” she says and he pulls his brows together in a frown. “But you are far too public a figure for that, so you can rest assured that I have no intention of marrying you.” 

“What, then?”

She leans in over the table and Harry presses back into his seat. She smiles. 

“I’d like to help you with your headaches, Mr Potter.” 

“Why? What’s in it for you?” 

“Think of it as… an indulgence, perhaps?” Her smile widens, her full lips a dark red, and she taps a long nail on the tabletop between them. “It’d be something like a sweet between healthy meals. Think about it, Mr Potter. Your owl will find me at the Zabini Residence in Somerset when you’re ready.” 

She reaches across the table and pats his hand, then takes her bags and leaves. 

Harry stares after her for a moment, then downs the rest of his pumpkin juice and wishes it was firewhisky. 

* * *

Harry tosses onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. His eyes are stinging and his head is throbbing, but he’s not getting any sleep. The bed is too big for one, the house too quiet and the pictures from the case too clear when he closes his eyes. Deciding it’s better to give up and get something useful done, he throws the blankets aside and rolls out of bed to pull his Auror robes on again. 

The floorboards creak as he fumbles his way down the corridor on his way to the stars - and then he stops a couple of doors down from the bedroom. He stares at if, his pulse banging in his skull and his mouth dry when he swallows. When he reaches for the handle, his hand shakes so bad he can barely turn it. 

The door swings open to a dark room with carpeting on the floor and silvery moonlight shining in through the window. After the Order of the Phoenix moved out, it served as a storage for all the things Harry and Ginny wanted out of the way. Harry moved all the things out again when they decided to make Grimmauld Place their permanent home and not just a temporary solution and he’d dreamed of one day painting the walls a soft blue, pale pink or warm yellow. He’d planned for a cradle under the window and a wicker chair in the corner and a thick, soft carpet on the floor to play on. Now that he’s standing in the doorway, he can’t picture the colours on the walls anymore. The room is simply empty with a layer of dust on the floor and a stale scent to the air. 

Harry bows his head and closes his eyes. “I’ll have a proper talk with Ginny next time,” he promises the room, then takes a step back and closes the door again. 

It’s just after three in the morning when he steps through the floo into the Ministry. The Atrium is deserted, the security booth empty. His steps echo in the large open space and cut through the silence. The ping of the elevator is loud, amplified by the night, and the clock over Robarts’ door ticks sharply when he steps into the office. 

A map over Britain has been set up in the cubicle, red needles marking the place where each of the victims died, and new pictures from the Hawkworth scene have been put up. In the evidence room he finds the bottled memories from Savage and Proudfoot when they first came to the scene, and he pours them into the pensive to look through them. Hawkworth looks a little less corpse-like, the blood hasn’t completely clotted yet and Hawkworth’s wife is hysterical, tears streaming down her face when she grabs Proudfoot’s robes and demands that they find the bastard who killed her husband. 

The blood analysis has come back, reporting no traces of potions. The cause of death has been deemed shock and blood loss, just like the other victims. 

Harry plonks down into Ron’s chair and goes over the fies laid out on his desk. There’s a note stuck to Hawkworth’s file:  _ letter - blackmail? trap?  _

Frowning, Harry gets up to take a closer look at the pictures on the wall again, his eyes scanning the pictures from Hawkworth’s house. There, among the photographs of blood and death, is one of a crumpled up letter that has been smoothed out again to make the text readable. 

_ I know about your affair, traitor. Meet with me or your family will find out what you did four years ago.  _

Harry tips his head to the side, twirling his wand between his fingers. Nothing like this has been found at any of the other scenes - could it be a trap to get into the victim’s home like the note suggested? “Four years ago” is rather specific, but still vague enough that it could be a bluff. Then again, “traitor”? It almost sounds like the killer is the one who has been betrayed, provided the letter came from the killer in the first place. 

He sighs and dips his head into his palm, massaging his temple with his fingers. 

“Mate?” 

Harry jerks up and twists around. Ron is standing in the door, wide-eyed and pale-faced. 

“When did you get here?” he asks, storming over to their cubicle. 

“I don’t know…” Harry says, turning to glance at the clock and only now realising that he isn’t alone in the office anymore. “Three hours ago?” 

“Shit, then you don’t know.”

“Know what? Don’t tell me there’s been another murder? It’s too soon, the killer doesn’t pick his victims this quickly.”

“It’s not that, you knobhead.” Ron snatches a copy of the Daily Prophet from another desk, the Auror grumbling indignantly about theft, and snaps it open in front of Harry. “This!” 

There are two pictures, both taken from a distance and a bit blurry, but Harry recognizes them immediately. The first is from the Ministry gala, showing their backs as Mrs Zabini leads Harry from the toilets to the apparition point, holding his arm to keep him steady. The second picture is from the Leaky Cauldron just yesterday, taken at an angle from somewhere behind Zabini. They must have snapped it just before Mrs Zabini left, because she’s leaning forwards with her hand holding Harry’s on the table. 

_ POTTER AFFAIR WITH ZABINI _

Harry flinches when pain shoots through his head and he throws his hands up to press against his temples. He bends over, his vision blurring, and stares at the floor. For a moment he can’t hear anything but his own breathing and his thoughts seem to shout at him through water. The next moment, he knows what he has to do. 

“I have to see Ginny.” 

He’s up and halfway through the office before Ron catches up with him. The elevator is busy, so he slams the door to the stairwell open and takes the stairs two at a time. 

“Mate! Wait! You can’t- It’s crazy out there-!” Ron shouts, trying to keep up with him, but Harry barely hears him over his own heart beat pounding in his head. 

He bursts out the door into the Atrium, a witch jumping aside with a gasp, and marches towards the floo. There’s a crowd in front of the fireplaces and Munch from the security stand is desperately trying to herd them aside to let Ministry employees coming in to work past. It isn’t until a woman calls “It’s Potter!” and they all turn around that Harry realises they are reporters. 

Squaring his shoulders, wand clutched tightly in his hand, Harry sets his sights on the fireplaces behind the reporters. He shoulders past the first few of them, ignoring their shouted questions, and dodges past a man stepping out in front of him. Spotting a gap between the reporters, he makes a dash for it when a hand snags his arm and spins him around. A flash goes off right in his face and dark spots swim across his vision. Bursts of white blinds him and he squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head to block it out. His ears are ringing, drowning out the questions from the reporters, and it all coalesces into a searing pain that fills his head and makes his knees buckle. 

Arms close around his chest and he’s dragged along. Blinking his eyes, trying to see something,  _ anything _ , he catches a glimpse of red, then fluttering green before everything spins into darkness. 


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s stress,” the Healer says. 

Harry is sitting in one of the beds in the room reserved for Aurors at St Mungos. Ron is sitting on the stool in the corner, elbows on his knees and hands hanging loosely between his legs. Healer Stern is standing by the foot of the bed, looking at Harry over her reading glasses. 

“You’ve got to take better care of yourself, Auror Potter,” she says, and even though she is barely over 30, she has already mastered the Deep Disapproval that Madam Pomfrey would wield on students to keep them in bed. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve patched you up by now - I’ve got other things to do, you know? One of these days you’ll fall and hit your head on something sharp and we Healers can cure most things but when the brain is leaking out of your skull it’s generally too late.”

Ron snorts in the corner and she shoots him a sharp side-look. “This applies to you too, Auror Weasley. Didn’t you get a daughter recently? You should be more careful now that you’re a father.”

“Yes, Healer Stern,” Ron says, chastened. 

She nods, once, and turns her gaze back on Harry. “How often have you been taking the pain relieving potion I prescribed you, Auror Potter?” 

“Twice a day, like you said.”

“I said twice a day _at the most_. How long have you been taking the maximum dose?”

“Since you prescribed it to me.”

“Every day?” When he nods, she breathes out a harsh breath through the nose. “ _As I told you_ when I gave you the prescription, this potion is not a long term solution. It is meant as a remedy to be used sparingly. If you use it too often you’ll build a tolerance against it and the potion will lose its potency!” 

“That’s… probably too late…”

Throwing her head back, Healer Stern presses her lips together and stares up into the ceiling as if searching for the willpower to not curse him. 

“Then I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to help you, Auror Potter,” she says and looks down at him again. “I can’t let you take more because the amount of accumulated potion in your body could reach toxic levels. What I should do is put you on sick leave for at least two weeks so that your stress levels go down and you catch up on sleep, but I suspect I’d have to tie you to the bed to get you to rest during a case?”

“Yes.” 

She sighs but nods. “I’ll write to Head Auror Robarts that you are to be put on leave as soon as the case is over. You need to get your sleeping habits in order and start taking care of yourself, Auror Potter.”

“Thank you, Healer Stern. You don’t think you could give me just one more…?”

“Finish that sentence and I will tie you to the bed,” she snaps, then nods to Ron before marching out of the room, muttering to herself about “idiot Aurors” and “who do they think will catch criminals when they’ve all worked themselves to death?”. 

Harry collapses back against the pillows with a sigh, reaching a hand up to rub his temple. 

“You okay, mate?”

“Yeah.” Harry quirks a smile at Ron as his friend gets up from the stool and comes over. “Thanks for saving me from the reporter mob.” 

“Bloody reporters, I wish I could just hex them into next week.”

“I’d join you, partner,” Harry says, then sits back up again. “Ron, about the article-”’

“I know. It’s that reporter making stuff up, isn’t it? I’d bet the guy has Rita Skeeter as his role model or something.” Ron tries for a smile, but it fades quickly. “I flooed Ginny while you were out.”

“How is she?” 

“Angry. You know Ginny. I tried to tell her that it’s all bullshit and I think I got through to her, but… she doesn’t want to talk with you for a while.” 

With a deep sigh, Harry scrubs his hands over his face, then lets his hands fall into his lap. “I did run into Mrs Zabini,” he says without looking at Ron. “Twice. She offered to help me with the headaches.”

“That’s... Do you trust her? I mean, you know her reputation, Harry…”

“I know, but you heard Healer Stern. I’ve got a few more doses of the potion laying around, but I’m not getting any more. If Zabini can help me, I’ve got to give it a shot if it can help me stay on my feet. Merlin knows I’ve been useless to the investigation the past few days.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ron says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I found a letter when I went back to talk with the rest of the family, so we’ve got a lead now.”

“Yeah, I saw the photo.”

Ron nods. “Savage is looking into it, she’s at the Prophet’s archives to see if there are any scandals or rumors about Hawkworth. You just concentrate on getting better, but… Be careful with Zabini, okay?”

“I will.”

* * *

  
  


“Mr Potter,” Mrs Zabini greets him when she opens the door. “Welcome. I didn’t expect you to contact me so soon, especially not after that… unfortunate article.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect you to invite me to your home,” Harry answers, scratching his neck as he takes in the soft carpeting, warm wood and mild light shining from little floating orbs spread about the space. 

It is not what Harry expected. During his trainee years, he had to go through countless cases while helping in the archives and though the cases had been written off in the end, there were still files for the deaths of Mrs Zabini’s husbands. It gave Harry a pretty good idea of how big the Zabini wealth must be, but this two-story home on a winding residential street seems modest in comparison to the Malfoy-worthy manor he had imagined Mrs Zabini to be living in. 

“I thought meeting in private would be preferable considering the current attention from the media. Was I mistaken?” Mrs Zabini asks, closing the door behind him. 

“No, I… I guess you’re right about that.”

Mrs Zabini gives him a pleased smile and leads the way into a sitting room with a tall but narrow fireplace. A pair of french doors lead out to a sloping garden with extravagant peonies and compact bushes trimmed to large balls. 

“Red charm.”

“What?” Harry turns away from the view and Mrs Zabini nods towards the garden. 

“The peonies. They’re called Red Charm.” She takes a seat on a couch with thick cushions and pats the spot next to her. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr Potter.”

Shrugging his outer robe off, Harry sits down on the padded bench across from her, his back against the fireplace. She raises a brow, clearly taking note of the distance he’s put between them, but smiles and crosses her legs as she leans back. 

“Tell me what’s troubling you, Mr Potter.”

“I need to do something about the headaches,” Harry says. “You said you could help.”

“I did, and the offer still stands. Are the potions not working anymore?” 

Harry grimaces and shakes his head. “The Healer said I’ve taken too much already.” 

“I see. I take it you also have trouble sleeping?”

“How would you know that?” 

“It doesn’t take an Auror to figure out what those circles under your eyes mean, Mr Potter.”

Harry ducks his head and rubs his hands over his face. 

“We need to find a way for you to relax,” Mrs Zabini says. “And I believe we can do that by taking away your responsibilities.”

“No.” Harry snaps his head up and stares at her. “I’m not abandoning the case.”

Ms Zabini levels him with a thoroughly unimpressed look. “I know, Mr Potter. What I hope to do is create a mindset that allows you to forget about the case while you are here with me. That way you could come to me to rest and then return to your responsibilities recharged. What do you say?” 

“A mindset?” 

“Yes. Do you have any pet names, Mr Potter?”

“What?” Harry gapes at her, thrown by the random question. _The Boy Who Lived_ and _The Chosen One_ flitter through his head, but those can hardly be called pet names, can they? “No, I… My friends just call me Harry.” 

“How would you feel about being Darling when you are with me?” 

The corners of Harry’s mouth turn down in a frown. “That’s inappropriate, Mrs Zabini. I am in a relationship with Ginny Weasley.”

“I’m aware, Mr Potter, as is the rest of wizarding Britain, I’m sure. The alternative name is necessary because the expectations our society has of you simply for being Harry Potter are likely enough to cause a certain amount of stress. This is why I’ll have you be someone else while you’re here with me.” 

Harry huffs a frustrated sigh, ruffling his hair. Why does she have to make it so complicated? Can’t she just give him a different potion or something? “So who’s this Darling you want me to be then?” 

“Darling is nobody,” she answers and keeps going before Harry can ask what the heck she means by that. “No one knows Darling, so there are no expectations that Darling has to live up to. There is nothing Darling needs to do and nowhere he needs to be. Darling can lie back and close his eyes and know that everything will be fine because I will be taking care of Darling.”

Harry gives her a doubtful look and nearly reminds her again that he’s together with Ginny. This is all very far from whatever kind of help he’d thought she might give him, but he has to admit it sounds harmless enough in spite of his reservations. “I don’t have much of a choice, so let’s try,” he sighs. “What do I do?” 

“Nothing, Darling. That’s the point.” 

She rises from the couch and comes around the low table between them. Harry follows her with his eyes, then turns his head when she moves to stand behind him. Two fingers on his jaw push his head back to face forwards. Her hands land on his shoulders, squeezing. 

“Would you take this off for me, Darling?”

Harry is going to shoot up and turn around, is going to demand that she tell him what she’s doing, but her hands are surprisingly firm when she pushes him back down onto the seat and she cuts in before he can get a word out. 

“I’m going to give you a massage but your clothes are in the way. I thought you’d be more comfortable removing them yourself, but perhaps you’d rather I do it for you?” 

Harry stares at the empty couch in front of him, back straight and shoulders tense. He works his jaw for a moment, but his treacherous mind reminds him how nice it felt when she massaged his neck back in the toilets at the Ministry. Behind him, Mrs Zabini sighs lightly and her hands shift for her thumbs to rub circles into the base of his neck. 

“I’m not looking for a sexual relationship, Darling,” she says and Harry feels heat crawl up his neck. “Nor a romantic one. I seduce men for a living, for the money, influence and benefits they can give me. Choosing someone simply because they are young and strong and pleasing to the eye, simply because I wish to enjoy their company, that is something I do not normally do.” Her hands move out, following the curve of his shoulders and stroke down his arms. WIth his robes as a barrier between them, it’s but a light pressure with a hint of warmth.

“Why would I trust you?” Harry asks. He knows it’s rude, knows he’ll probably get kicked out and get no help with the headaches, but he has to ask. If he can’t trust her, it seems whatever help she’s planning on giving him isn’t going to work anyway. 

“You’re an honest person,” she answers softly, her hands working their way back up his arms. “You don’t lie and don’t manipulate people, and you don’t trust those who do. Whatever a lie could buy me, it wouldn’t be worth the risk of you discovering the lie, so I’ve decided to use honesty with you.” 

That honesty could just as well be a lie. Of course it could. Still, Mrs Zabini isn't going to turn him into another dead husband, so what would she have to gain from deceiving him? His head throbs as if to remind him why he came here in the first place and he ducks his head and starts on the buckles of his jacket. 

“I’m keeping the wand,” he says, dropping it out of his sleeve and putting it on the table within easy reach. 

“Of course, Darling,” she answers and takes the jacket, sliding it off his arms. 

The vest follows next, Mrs Zabini placing it neatly folded beside him on the bench along with the jacket and his outer robe. His fingers hovering over the buttons of his shirt where he pauses for a moment, then shakes his head and keeps going, letting her pull the shirt off him. He pulls the undershirt over his head and then he’s naked from the waist up, picking up his wand and holding it loosely as he waits to see what Mrs Zabini will do next. 

Her hands return to his shoulders, but it feels different now without the layers of clothing in the way. Her hands are warm and dry and her grip is one of gentle firmness. She works on his shoulders and neck with obvious experience that makes Harry drop his head forwards and close his eyes. 

He can’t remember the last time anyone touched him like this. Sure, Ron claps him on the shoulder all the time and Hermione hugs him when he comes over for a visit, but he can’t recall any touch more intimate than that in the past year. In fact, he can’t pinpoint the last time Ginny touched him at all, not after months of active avoidance on the few occasions they both happened to be in the house. 

Ms Zabini presses into a knot and he grimaches, then groans appreciatively when something unlocks under her thumb. She moves on to the next one, her hands wandering over his back with purpose. It makes him feel loose in a way he hasn’t in a long time, makes him droop forwards with a sigh. Her hand finds his neck, thumb on one side and fingers of the other, the grip tightening without being constricting. 

“When I do this, Darling,” she says. “I want you to relax.” 

Harry hums and she moves her hand, guiding him to turn until he’s straddling the bench. She holds him by his shoulders and he leans down when she steers him there, letting her place him on his front with his arms hanging over the sides of the bench. His glasses dig into his temple and Mrs Zabini is taking them off before he can think to complain, folding them and placing them on the table. 

He’s still got his wand in hand, the tip against the floor, but his grip is lax. When her hands continue down along his spine to work the kinks out of his lower back he doesn’t mind. She traces the lining of his trousers and he melts deeper into the plush padding of the bench. For a moment, one of her hands strays up to his neck again, squeezing, before joining the other to massage his side. 

“When did you last have a full night’s sleep, Darling?” she asks and he can feel the warmth of her breath against his shoulder blade. 

He murmurs something, not sure himself what he’s trying to say because he doesn’t know the answer. Her fingers brush through his hair, her other hand rubbing a circle into his side. 

“Sleep, Darling. I won’t mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think and I might just send you a completely imaginary cyber cookie! ;)


End file.
